Limbo
by ERWG
Summary: Jim's just home from the hospital.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"Here you go, Jimmy."

A plate was set gently on the table before him and he could smell the melted cheese and the egg of his omelet. Christie was getting good at preparing food that didn't require much effort to find and eat. She joined him at the breakfast bar and Jim could hear the tap of her silverware on her plate as she cut into her own half of the omelet.

"Do you need something?" she asked. "Your fork is…"

"I know where my fork is," he started to say brusquely, but something made him gentle his tone as he added, "thank you, Christie. It smells good."

He found the fork on his first attempt and he gripped the handle, wondering why it was suddenly impossible to hold a utensil in any way that felt natural.

Christie was watching. He could feel it. She began the newsy chat that was a new ritual whenever they were alone together, informing him of the doings of her out-of-state brother and his family, of her co-workers, of their mutual friends, of their neighbors, even of things she had read in the newspaper or online. The word "blind" never crossed her lips during these talks, nor did any mention of what the real topic of conversation was whenever Christie caught up with family and friends these days.

Jim didn't pay much attention, but he appreciated the way she was respecting his unspoken need for normalcy; his need not to talk about what had happened or what had changed. Her presence now brought a comfort he hadn't experienced before and he knew there were certain lines Christie wouldn't cross with him until he was ready. She wouldn't push him. She wouldn't try to make sense out of their mess of a marriage. She wouldn't even try to comfort him and tell him everything was going to be okay. There weren't words for what he was feeling—when he was even able to feel—and Christie didn't presume to attempt to cheer up or to advise. She was just there, trying to make their domestic life as routine as possible.

There was only one thing that still seemed normal to Jim. In their room at night when the lights were off, Jim could close his eyes and imagine nothing was different and Christie was always more than happy to play along, not ruining it with any talk. Maybe she was pretending too.

A knock at the door broke into Jim's thoughts. He jumped, but Christie didn't notice because she had already run to open the door.

"Thank you so much for coming over, Cara," Christie was saying, keeping her voice low. But she couldn't hide the tense note that crept in as she spoke with their neighbor. It was a sound she wouldn't allow in her speech when she was talking to Jim directly because it was too much of a reminder of what was really going on.

Jim liked Cara. Always had. She had lived in the building for longer than anyone else and her grandmotherly vibe made her easy to be around. She had come over several times since Jim had been released from the hospital and she was by far the visitor who put Jim the most at ease—probably because she was the most at ease with him. She greeted him now in a voice completely free from strain or sorrow or fake pep and Jim found himself smiling in response. The curve of his lips felt strange and he tried to remember when he had last smiled; not the stiff smile he wore when grieving friends and family came to see him, but a smile that required no premeditated effort. But the reason for Cara's visit froze the smile and made Jim's breath catch in his throat.

"I feel really uneasy about leaving," Christie told Jim, but he could hear her gathering her things. And she had dressed up for the first time in a long while. Her shoes tapped on the floor as she walked and she was wearing her work perfume.

"You had to go back sometime," he said, trying to sound casual.

Really, he was almost relieved. He had been home from the hospital for two weeks and had almost never had a chance to be alone in that time. To grow comfortable with his surroundings in his own way. To be allowed to trip or bump into things without feeling he had somehow inflicted grief upon someone else by not being instantly at ease in the dark.

But once Christie had kissed him and closed the door behind her with a click, a hollow feeling enveloped him and he wondered dizzily if anything he was experiencing was even real.

"Just so we're clear," Cara told him, "I'm not your babysitter."

Jim forced a laugh at that, but the words stung because he knew that was exactly what Cara was. "So you'll let me eat ice cream for lunch and play in the mud?" he said.

Cara's hand rested on Jim's and she gave a squeeze. "What do you tend to do during the day?" she asked, almost sounding hesitant.

Jim's eyes did a habitual sweep as he tried to catch a glimpse of something. Anything. 

"Oh, the usual," he said. "Skydiving, football, and petty theft, mostly. Sometimes I perform brain surgery, but that's mostly a hobby."

"You seem to be recovering nicely," she said, chuckling low in her throat. "Much better than even a week ago. Your color is better and it's nice to see you with your bandages off."

Jim's hand went to the tender unfamiliar bump at his temple, surprised because he had almost forgotten about it. He could summon to his mind a picture of his own face, but he couldn't quite imagine it scarred, as he knew it now was. The bump felt large and ugly, but the doctor had assured him that much of the swelling would soon be gone and that the scar wouldn't be very obvious before too long.

"It's not that bad," Cara said, seeming to know exactly what Jim was wondering. "You look good, Jim. How could you not? I even kind of like the scruffy face thing you've got going."

Shaving was not a priority these days. "It's been a while since I've been able to get away with anything like this," he said, feeling that smile grow again as he fingered his beard.

But even Cara wasn't going to be able to be of much comfort, Jim realized. She was better than nearly everyone else, but the need to be alone was growing stronger by the moment. He wanted some time to explore his apartment by himself and to see just how much he could do without someone rushing to his rescue, whether he needed it or not.

"Cara," he said, releasing his hand from hers. "Please don't take this the wrong way. Thanks for being willing to come over here and cop-sit but…I really just want to be alone. I need to be alone."

"I see," she said, but for the first time Jim caught some reserve in her voice. "I understand that, Jimmy. But…are you sure? You're still very new to this. Christie said you might…"

"She thinks I'll hurt myself or have some terrible accident…But I haven't had a moment to myself in weeks."

"Can you get to my door by yourself?" Cara asked.

"I'm sure I—"

"Show me you can do that much and I'll go home. I can be around for emergencies if it makes Christie feel better, but if you really don't need me hovering, I'll go away."

"You know I know your phone number."

"Yes, but I think Christie would feel better about me leaving you alone if we could prove to her you're able to get to me. Telling her we did that might make her give you some more space."

Jim didn't like the idea of "showing" anyone anything, particularly when it involved a gropey shuffle out his front door and down the hall, counting doors until he reached Cara's and feeling for the raised number to make sure it was the right one, but the idea of solitude at long last was motivation enough for Jim and he did it, feeling just as ridiculous as he had known he would. The indignity of having to prove himself in this way struck him as he retraced his steps to his own door, knowing Cara was watching to make sure he got back without incident.

His mind raced once he was inside his apartment again. Alone. Finally alone. He had some thinking to do and it was the kind of thinking he couldn't do with an anxious wife in the room, constantly checking to make sure he was okay. Constantly protecting him. Had it really come to this?

He rummaged through the refrigerator until his hand grazed a beer bottle. He thought about saving it until a little later in the day, but then he laughed. Christie wasn't home to be shocked by a morning drink and it sounded too good to resist. Unable to locate the bottle opener, he wedged the edge of the bottle cap against the corner of the counter and brought his fist down in a way that felt familiar, smiling at the whooshing sound and the clatter of the lid somewhere on the kitchen floor informing him of his success. 

The beer in his hand—the first thing he had been able to do completely on his own since the shooting—felt natural and right, but walking the short distance to the couch still seemed silly because of how things in his mind didn't match up with where they really were. He missed the couch and, by the time he realized he had gone too far, he didn't know exactly where he was standing so he had to resort to sliding his feet in front of him until they made contact with the coffee table and he was able to get his bearings again.

"Shit," he said, sitting down at last.

Was everything to be this difficult? The social worker who had visited him when he first got home had been very positive about all he'd still be able to do. All he'd be able to relearn. But to have to learn again was not something that came easily to Jim, especially if there was a struggle involved. Hadn't he worked his entire life to get where he was now? He downed the last of his beer and allowed the bottle to drop to the floor as he revised his previous thought. Hadn't he worked his entire life to get where he had been right up to the moment that bullet had entered his skull? He deserved to have that life back again. All of it.

This wasn't him. He wasn't at the mercy of the kind old lady down the hall. He wasn't being watched and protected by his wife. He wasn't unemployed and bored to tears sitting home alone, feeling impressed with himself for opening his beer unassisted. This couldn't possibly be his life. 

Now was when Christie's normalizing presence usually made itself known. Now was when her chatter and her routine snapped his brain back to the blank place so he could pretend to function.

But she wasn't home.

It was too big to grasp. It filled his brain, creating a black void as big as the entire world of nothing he saw through his eyes. It went beyond loss or self pity or grief. The only thing he could feel whenever any of this felt real was sick to his stomach. He couldn't possibly live like this. Anyone who knew him knew this was too much. He couldn't be this person.

A few minutes later his fingertips felt for the number on Cara's door and he knocked.

The door opened. "Are you okay?" Cara asked, sounding scared.

"I don't need a babysitter," he told her.

"I know. That's why I left. Why are you here, Jim?"

"I just…" But he didn't know the answer so none came.

"I'm not doing anything very exciting," she told him. "Just watching some TV. But I'd love some company."

"Cool," Jim said, stepping into Cara's apartment and allowing her to lead him to her easy chair. 

"I'm glad you're here," she added once they were situated. "I have something that needs to go on the top shelf of the hall closet and I was just wishing for someone tall enough to reach it to come over so I wouldn't have to stand on a chair."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"Do they have to come over again?" Jim asked, groaning. "They were just here last week."

Christie rumpled Jim's hair as she passed behind him. "I know, but they're your parents. They want to be with you. They're bringing dinner."

Jim shrugged. "Well, that's something, at least. I just…"

"I know."

The change in her tone told him she really did understand part of why a visit from his parents made him uncomfortable. But visits from other people weren't much better so Jim figured it was just another item to add to the list of things he would have to suck up and get used to. The list grew longer every day and most of the items on it felt just as strange to him as they had from the start.

"This time will be different," Christie told him.

Jim's eyebrows went up in a show of unveiled skepticism. "Yeah?"

"Shannon is back from California. Your mom told me when she called this morning. She wants to see you."

Jim lifted his head and his eyebrows went back to their normal position. "Oh, that'll be nice."

He hadn't seen his sister since she had gone to California six months before to do set design for a television show. Shannon had been in touch by phone since the shooting, but Jim had convinced her it was better not to miss any work on his account and to wait until the job was over before coming back home. "I'll still be blind when you get here," he had joked, but now he recalled not hearing a laugh in return.

He was napping when his family arrived. Even with Christie shushing them at the door, the sound of their entrance was enough to awaken him. Jim sat up and took a quick inventory of his appearance. He noticed he seemed to have bed head so he ran his fingers through his hair, hoping to make the disarray seem more intentional, and then carefully made his way to the door. Even though he was starting to learn the layout of the apartment in a new way and could now walk through it without too many mishaps, he still went slowly, not trusting that this time the path would be clear. His subconscious placed obstacles before him in odd places and he felt the need to double check at times to make sure they were, in fact, imaginary.

As he reached for the door, anxious to greet his sister, he stopped at the sound of low voices on the other side. Obviously another of Christie's low conversations. She had those with visitors sometimes, but Jim had never been able to catch any of the words before.

"He should be up pretty soon," Christie was saying. "Do you want me to check on him?"

"No." It was Shannon. "I don't want to bother him."

"I know he's dying to see you."

Shannon spoke again after a long pause. "Yeah. But…I don't know if I'm ready. Isn't it stupid? I'm a little nervous."

Jim's mom responded to that. "That doesn't really go away."

Jim knew his dad was there too, but wasn't surprised not to hear his take on any of this.

"There's no reason for anyone to be nervous," Christie told the Dunbars. "Just be yourselves. Jim is still Jim."

"Can we talk about it?" Shannon asked. "With him, I mean. How open is he?"

"You're asking if Jim is open?" Christie had to laugh at that, but then her voice grew lower. "We don't really talk about it. It's not that we can't. I honestly don't know how he'd react to it but...I just get the feeling he's too overwhelmed by everything to really be up for talking about it with me. It might be different with you. It might even be a relief."

"But he's okay?" Shannon asked.

"I don't know." And Christie really did sound uncertain. "He's fine on the surface. Seems to have a decent attitude and likes to crack jokes to relieve the tension, but you know Jimmy. The deeper something hits, the less he'll show and this is about as deep as it gets. He's very proud, you know. Has to tough it out his own way."

They seemed to have moved further into the living room and Jim was struggling to make out their words, so he opened the bedroom door, bracing himself for family time.

Jim had always known what Christie was up to during the low talks. She was there to act as the bridge to Jimmy's psyche; to answer the questions no one dared to ask when he was around. Hearing the actual words wasn't much to his liking, but nothing he had heard had come as a surprise.

"Look who's up," Jim's mom said in much the same way as she had when Jim was five. A moment later her arms were around him and she was kissing him on the cheek.

Then a firm hand gripped Jim's arm for a moment, which was really a stunning display of emotion, coming from Jim's dad. "I hope we didn't disturb you."

"Not at all," Jim lied. "So...Shannon's here? I thought I heard her voice."

"Right here," Shannon said brightly. "Nice beard," she added, rubbing his facial hair the wrong way until he cringed away from her, feeling itchy.

Christie took Jim by the hand and guided him to his favorite chair and he knew by the shifting and moving around him that the others were also seating themselves.

Jim tried to face his mom, which wasn't easy since he had no idea of where she was. "I thought you were bringing dinner."

"We did."

Her voice came from Jim's left so he adjusted his head, hoping he was facing her. "What did you bring?"

"Just a casserole. It's warming in the oven."

Now he could smell it, but he hadn't noticed it before. So much for super senses taking over. "Thanks, Ma."

"So you're back at work now, right?" Jim's dad asked. Jim frowned for a moment but then realized the question was being addressed to Christie.

"Yes. Started back Monday."

"So how is that working out?"

"I don't like leaving, but Jim is doing fine."

"I'd be happy to come over during the day sometimes," Jim's mom offered.

Jim bit his lip and tried to smile. "I'm fine, Ma. Really."

They filled the time before dinner with small talk; something Dunbars were good at. Shannon talked about her recent job in California and Jim's mom asked enthusiastic questions and pretended to be including Jim in the merriment. Dinner couldn't come soon enough for Jim. All awkwardness aside, his appetite was starting to return and all he could think about as his family prattled on was the gnawing in his stomach.

The down side was having to eat with everyone. Jim was far from comfortable maneuvering his way around a dinner plate and the thought of getting stuck and needing to rely on Christie for help in front of everyone made his face feel hot.

"What's wrong, Jimmy?" his mother asked.

Jim jumped. "Nothing."

"You look a little flushed. You're not sick, are you?"

"No. Just...no. I'm fine."

"Good. Now eat your casserole. It's your favorite."

It had been Jim's favorite when he was twelve, but he had no urge to make any corrections on that point. A lot of people were starting to treat him as if he had suddenly regressed back into childhood.

The smell of tuna casserole brought him back to a different time when he used to eat that meal under very different circumstances. When he was twelve his parents were a comforting presence and Shannon was barely more than a baby. His life was mapped out before him. He was going to be a cop, just like his dad. With each advancement in his career, Jim had felt the approval of the twelve-year-old inside him. He had allowed himself to imagine how young Jimmy would have hero worshipped Detective Jim Dunbar. But did that young boy ever stop to think of how it would all end? What would he have thought, had he seen himself poking around on a plate, trying to find casserole hidden in the dark? His life no longer bore the stamp of approval it had when he was still on the path his younger self had sanctioned.

Jim offered to help wash dishes after they had eaten, more to avoid quality time with his parents than because he had suddenly been endowed with domestic abilities. No one would hear of it so Jim stayed at his place at the table, listening to the others move about freely.

"You okay, Jimmy?" Shannon asked. Jim had the impression no one else was paying any attention to them at that moment. His mom and Christie were washing dishes and he had recently heard the rustle of newspaper in the living room that had betrayed his father's location.

"Don't get into that habit," Jim warned, trying to sound like he was teasing.

"What habit?"

"Asking if I'm okay every time I'm not talking."

"Happening a lot lately?"

"You could say that."

"Well...that's some elephant you've got in here, Jimmy."

"What?"

"The one taking up most of this room but that no one is allowed to mention."

He had to smile at that, but his expression felt tight. "You like that?"

"It sure is big."

"Sorry. Didn't see it. What do you want to know, Shannon?"

She squeezed his arm. "Just...just that you're okay."

It was funny. That was exactly what Jim wanted to know about everyone else. He longed to ask the people in his life how they felt about him now and how everyone else was reacting to the news, but he could never quite form the words. Maybe a stronger part of him didn't want to know the answers after all. Maybe being cut off from them like this was easier.

"What do _you_ think?" he asked, a hard edge entering his tone. "Am I okay?"

"I think...that you'll always seem all right as far as anyone can tell and that you may not really be okay no matter how cool you play this."

He gave a low whistle and smiled at his sister. "Really? I'll never be okay? That's not at all grim."

"I just meant you seem the same whether you're okay or not. That's why I asked, but I should have known not to expect a straight answer about any of this from you."

"No, that's what Christie is for. Just ask her instead. She'll tell you how I really am, whether she's bothered to ask me or not."

"Jimmy," Shannon said, now in a whisper. "Where did that come from? Are you mad at Christie now?"

Jim was as surprised as Shannon by this, but there it was. "Of course I can't be mad at her," he whispered back. "She's a saint."

"She's a wife. She's having a hard time too."

"You don't know the half of it."

"What do you mean?"

He regretted even eluding to what had been going on in their marriage just before the shooting. "Nothing. There's just a lot more to this than you know."

"What—?"

"And that's all you're gonna know about that, okay?"

"Okay. But…Christie is going through a really hard time and without much help from you."

"Well…without even asking her about it, I think I have it on pretty good authority that I shouldn't be nervous about it because Christie is still Christie."

He could hear what sounded like a gasp coming from Shannon. "You heard us talking," she said.

"I wasn't quite as asleep as Christie thought I was, if that's what you mean."

"She's just trying to help. And what's she supposed to do when people ask her?"

Jim nodded, feeling subdued. "I know. But…she's the fucking authority on how I'm doing now?"

"Who is, if not Christie?"

"I am."

"From what I hear, you're not real big on the talking these days so what are people supposed to do to find out how you're doing?"

"They could ask me."

"That's what I did and I'm no closer to getting my answer than I was when I got here. And you're admittedly sick of people asking if you're okay."

"Then I guess they should just figure it out for themselves. That's all Christie is doing."

Shannon sighed. "Well, thank you for at least trying to answer my question."

Jim's dad seemed to be on the move and soon Jim heard a chair scrape and his dad grunted in his old-man way as he joined them at the table.

"Jimmy," he said, then cleared his throat. "Um…I've been wanting to tell you. What you did at that bank? It was heroic. A lot of people on the force have told me how impressed they are with what you did and that they're—they're sorry. You were one hell of a cop."

"Past tense?" Jim shook his head. "Not dead, Dad."

"But not a cop," his dad said quietly.

"Just a temporary glitch."

"You can't be serious. There's no way they'll ever let you work in the field again. They'll set you up with a desk job or a teaching position."

"That's not what I do."

The silence between them grew uncomfortable and Jim became aware of the silence coming from the kitchen. Christie and his mom were obviously listening now.

"What is it you plan to do, Jimmy?" his father asked.

"I'm going to get my job back."

"You have to face reality, Son. Your time is past. You're a good man and you did a good thing, but you are no longer the man you were and you're certainly not going to be reinstated."

"That's for the courts to decide," Christie said unexpectedly. "Jimmy's lawyer thinks he's got a chance."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"Jim have you seen my—?"

"No."

Christie's hurried footsteps stopped abruptly.

Jim grinned toward her and was rewarded with an answering chuckle.

"One of these days I'll remember," she said apologetically, but she was still smiling. Jim didn't know how he knew that, but he did. He could hear it.

He shrugged. "Not a big deal."

"What are you doing?"

She seemed to be moving in for a closer look.

Jim felt himself blushing, which annoyed him. Other people didn't blush when someone caught them looking at their possessions, but something made him shrink within himself at the thought of someone catching him trying to do this by touch.

"I'm just going through some of my stuff," he said, keeping it as simple as possible. "Maybe I'll get rid of a few things."

"I can do that with you tonight when I get home," Christie offered.

"No, I'm not doing anything big. I'll leave those boxes in the storage room for later, but I just wanted to try to figure out some of the smaller things."

"Okay."

"Gives me something to do."

"Well, you have stuff to do today, right?"

Jim smiled, but he imagined it to be a nervous smile so he tried to stop. "Pretty big day," he agreed.

"You sure you're ready?"

"I got the all clear from the doc," Jim reminded. "He says I can resume all regular activities. I'm all better."

He smiled wryly at that, but Christie didn't verbalize her reaction so he imagined her looking at him with a pity face on. That was usually how he pictured her when she was silent.

"Do you want me here for this?" she asked quietly. "I can take another day off."

"No, Christie. Go to work. I'll be fine. The whole point of all this rehab stuff is that I need to learn to do it by myself. I can't have my wife hanging around making sure I'm doing it right all the time."

"I guess you're right," she said.

Jim didn't know if being an injured cop had made all the rehab services more readily available to him than to most people in his position, but he had not been lacking attention since his return from the hospital. It had started with the social worker, but as he got stronger, more people called and soon a woman named Eva started coming to the apartment once a week to give him pointers on how to navigate his home and how to do things for himself.

"How others perceive you is largely up to you," she had told him during their first meeting together.

Jim had grunted at that. "How do you figure? They'll look at me and see BLIND."

"Yes," she had agreed, as if it hadn't mattered to her much. "Of course they'll see a blind man, just as they'll see a blond man. That's just who you are now. But you have a lot to say about what kind of blind man they'll see. They might expect you to be clumsy, sloppy, poorly dressed, scruffy…"

Jim's hand had moved across the stubble on his chin self-consciously at that, but he was starting to see her point.

"You can prove them wrong. Match your clothes. Shave. Move with confidence. All you need is a bit of training and a lot of practice and I guarantee you'll make a far more positive impression than you think. Right now, you're probably thinking of how sorry for you people feel and you want to go hide. I can see it when I look at you. Well, stop that. Keep your head up and show some pride. People may instinctively pity a blind man if they don't know better. That's life, so you need to become someone who is hard to pity."

That stayed with him more than anything anyone had said to him since he had been blinded. He may have struggled to make a bed and wash dishes and prepare lunch for himself, but he was meticulous about his grooming from that day on. Even his casual clothes were chosen with care and his hair was slightly mussed in the style Christie had always liked. Within a week, he had even perfected shaving with a razor, rejecting the electric razor Christie had bought for him because she thought it was safer. He wanted to look sophisticated; put together.

It was easier to face his visitors once he knew he was no longer looking the part of a poor lost soul who was barely getting by. Whatever might have been going on inside his head as he visited with family, with neighbors, with some of the detectives from his squad, he knew he was showing them confident body language and a polished look. It was becoming habit to adopt a neutral expression to hide behind and he wore it like a mask so no one could spot his uncertainty or catch him flinching when well-intended words stung. However much he mulled it all over when he was alone, he was learning to take command of the situation during his visits. It was easy, since most of the interaction was taking place within his apartment. Thanks to Eva, he now had the apartment memorized the blind way and people who came to see him were often impressed by how at ease he appeared as he moved and by how well he seemed to be taking care of himself.

The next step, Eva had told him, was to learn to be comfortable in strange environments. She urged him to begin training with his cane, but Jim resisted, hiding behind what his doctor had told him about taking it easy and giving his body a chance to heal for as long as he could, but once the doctor had finally told him he was good as new (Jim had to refrain from rolling his eyes at that), he knew it was time to start working with an Orientation and Mobility specialist.

Going down the hall to Cora's apartment had seemed like achievement enough. Even that was beyond his comfort level. He liked to be where he knew his surroundings and could control his environment. Once he stepped out that door, anyone could see him. Anything could happen. He could completely lose control at any moment and all that poise he had worked so hard to achieve would be gone and he might even start to outwardly panic.

"That's what your lessons will teach you to handle," Eva had assured him the day before he was to start cane travel.

A therapist specializing in working with people who were newly blinded had offered his services along with everyone else who had tried to help Jim since his return home, but Jim had turned him down. He didn't need therapy. He needed skill. He needed to do things on his own. He needed as much of his life back as he could get. The last thing he needed was to talk about his feelings.

With so much work before him, Jim often imagined he no longer had feelings. As long as he was busy, he could focus on the task at hand. It was the quiet time that scared him. The half hour he would spend every night as he tried to sleep but could only think about what had happened. About what might happen in the future. Even with some level of independence regained, what was there for him? And then he would relive everything he had accomplished during the day, only without the sense of pride he had felt the first time through. In his mind, all his work became pitiful and futile, as did any hope he still had of ever being able to do something that meant anything to him again. Of ever being a detective.

How could he be a detective again if he was reluctant to leave his apartment? He never voiced this question, but it was nagging him from the inside all the time. Since his return from the hospital, he had only gone outside when there was no other choice. He had been to his doctor a few times and to his lawyer twice and Christie was always with him, watching out for him and keeping him safe. He didn't like to think about those outings. The jumble of city noise threw him into confusion and every step felt like a supreme act of faith. He always writhed afterward to think of how dependently he had clung to Christie and how he had jumped at each unexpected noise. He knew he would be taught how to do it all on his own and that it might even be interesting. He was eager to once again come and go as he pleased, but whenever he clutched Christie's arm as she carefully guided him, any notion of who he was seemed to evaporate. Those noisy streets full of people staring at him were harder to face than the gunman at the bank had been.

He knew he couldn't be clinging to Christie when it was time to appear before a judge. He had to have the same poise he had learned to have at home no matter where he was and that started with the cane.

Christie had gone to work and Jim decided he couldn't concentrate on trying to sort his things any longer. He found his cane where Christie had left it on the dining room table and unwrapped the elastic strap so he could shake it straight. Holding it didn't feel natural, but he tried walking around the apartment while using it as a feeler. It might work, he admitted to himself. But was a long white stick really all that was needed to keep him safe and show him the way?

"You're going to do the work, not the cane," Lou, the cane guy, told him when Jim asked him a similar question an hour later. "It's like if you asked me if having a hammer meant you could automatically build a house. You have to know how to use it."

Lou was short, Jim noted instantly. His voice was rough while still being strangely high and, most disturbing of all, he seemed to be blind as well. Jim had serious doubts about going outside with someone who might get them both killed.

"How blind are you, Lou?" Jim asked. He had heard the tapping of a cane when he had first invited Lou in.

"Blind enough."

"So how…?"

"I've been teaching Orientation and Mobility for twenty years. No one's dead."

"But are you blind like—like me?"

"Wouldn't matter. I can literally teach this with my eyes closed. I do, sometimes, to make sure I'm getting it right. None of this is about how well either of us can see. It's about how we learn to make sense of things without needing to look. And how the hell should I know if I'm blind like you? How blind are you, anyway?"

"Can't see a thing," Jim said, feeling oddly comfortable saying those words all of a sudden.

"Well, not that it's any of your business, but I'm not blind like you. I can see a fair bit, but I need a cane for safety and to let others know I may not see them. I get shapes and some colors."

Jim couldn't imagine what Lou's world looked like. He wondered if having partial vision was easier or more confusing than having none at all, but then he sighed because it didn't matter. They each had what they had.

"How did you get here?" Jim asked next. "How were you able to find my apartment? I'm assuming you don't have someone driving you around everywhere."

"My chauffer is waiting outside with my limo now," Lou said, only breaking into a laugh when Jim did. "Subway, dumbass. Piece of cake. This is a great place to be blind, just so you know."

Jim frowned, thinking of the bustle and the noise and the obstacles wherever he turned. "How do you figure?"

"Use your head. Public transportation. Think of how many sighted people don't even drive in the city."

"Lou," Jim said, leaning toward him and lowering his voice. "I gotta tell you something I wouldn't admit to almost anyone because it's like it's not me talking. I don't like the idea of going out there."

"It's friendlier out there than you think," Lou assured him. "People will offer to help wherever you go—whether you want them to or not."

That was a new idea—and a horrible one. The thought of people looking at him and instantly assuming him to be in need of assistance even when he wasn't was humiliating. It seemed more like another reason to stay home than a reason to brave the streets.

But they went out. Somehow it was less scary without Christie to hang on to. Without Christie to monitor each step and to constantly check in to assess Jim's state of wellbeing, Jim was starting to learn to listen. Soon, some of the sounds came to him with clarity and enabled him to get a sense of what has happening around him. Lou had gone over how to hold the cane and what to do with it and by the end of his first lesson, Jim knew the path out of his building and could go around the block and find his way into his own building again with very little assistance from Lou.

"Now just keep your chin up," Lou said as he was getting ready to leave. "Move with confidence."

"Wasn't I doing that?"

"How should I know? It was your first lesson. I always assume there's room for improvement in that department."


End file.
